


Codename: Bratty Son

by DoreyG



Category: Spy (TV show)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2011-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim and Chris are quite keen on starting a physical relationship, just a pity that Marcus disagrees with that...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Codename: Bratty Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twizzle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twizzle/gifts).



“So,” Chris says, his mouth curving smugly – as it has the right to, he supposes. Seven years of attempted seduction, on-and-off for Chris has the attention span of a mayfly with only seconds to live, finally succeeding _is_ reason enough to look a tiny bit pleased with yourself, after all.

“So,” he says in reply, hiding a fond smile by the skin of his teeth. Because he’s nervous, yes, but he can’t quite _help_ feeling happy about Chris’ happiness (…If that even makes sense).

“We’re all sorted, then,” especially as Chris steps closer, that smirk _clearly_ triumphant from this distance and joyfully lighting up his whole face, “I want to shag you into your kitchen counter, you’re willing to negotiate over blow-jobs in your car, we both want each other in a complete and utter way!”

“…Yes,” he holds back laughter. For that’s the only response to Chris in a situation like this, really (they’re about to get _naked_ together, hopefully, lectures on adulthood hardly seem to be all that relevant), “I suppose.”

“You only suppose?” Chris _purrs_ , so he knows that no _real_ offence is taken, stopping right before him and looking up – breath warm and brushing against his lips.

…He can only grin. Still fondly, a little shaky but that’s to be expected in a situation such as this.

“Well…” A situation with Chris balancing slowly up on his toes, winding his arms around his neck and moving so they’re pressed completely together – from chest down to thigh with absolutely nothing in between, “ _I_ suppose that that’ll be good enough, then.”

He keeps grinning…

And the kiss, when Chris finally leans forwards and up and he finally leans forwards and down, is _just_ as perfect as he’s secretly been fantasising about at night. Chris’ lips are oddly soft, swiftly turning into hot and wet as he opens his mouth and _invites_ that tongue in. Chris’ body is warm, bony and perfect in his arms as he tightens his grip and tilts his head just slightly. The man half starts to actually _giggle_ , a terribly endearing sound, as he finally gets the bravery to slowly start trailing his hands down from that bony waist-

“ _Eugh_.”

…Ah.

And he’s immediately drawing back, still with Chris (now blinking) in his arms, and glancing towards the door. To where Marcus is standing, holding his school bag with an expression of utter disgust all over his face.

…Ah. Again.

“Marcus!” He cries (and still doesn’t let go of Chris, which maybe _isn’t_ the most sensible option but his brain is rather shying away from sense at the moment), “good day at-?”

“You’re a disgusting human being,” Marcus interrupts, that expression of utter disgust growing a little more despairing.

“You can talk,” Chris mutters, finally taking the initiative to slide his arms free and step sulkily back. His expression mirroring Marcus’ in every way, except with a slightly more _murderous_ tint.

…Ah, over and over again. Perhaps it would be best to move on from this state of affairs before he has to explain the clash of the evil titans to any disbelieving courts, “Sorry about that, Marcus, didn’t expect you to be back so soon. Do you have any homework-?”

“Tim, you couldn’t help me even if I did,” Marcus only sighs, in world weary tones, and turns on his heel – marching towards the kitchen like the stroppy lord of evil that he is, “all I can ask is that you refrain from your sickening love life while I’m trying to do _important_ things.”

“…I-!”

But Marcus is already gone, vanished, _disappeared_. Off to the kitchen with a haughty sniff and not a single glance back.

“Well,” Chris says sulkily, slumping back to the settee and folding his arms like a four (two) year old having a tantrum, “ _that_ helplessly murdered the mood.”

\--

The second time it happens he _honestly_ doesn’t expect it.

He thinks that they’re good, _safe_. Marcus is out at chess club, apparently a replacement to book club (though he’s _still_ not allowed to join), and he’s pretty sure that they have at least half an hour – maybe an hour, maybe _two_ if they’re incredibly lucky.

…But, of course, he’s never been incredibly lucky in his life (has always been rather the opposite, really, judging by the many, _many_ times that the universe has punched him in the face). And so, the _moment_ that Chris finally manages to fold his overly long limbs down and lean in for an incredibly sweet kiss-

“ _Eugh_.”

“Marcus!”

…His son is standing in the doorway again, with his arms folded and that old expression of scorn back in residence – informing him quite clearly that he’s the lowest creature in the universe and barely suitable to even _look_ upon that face.

“I thought you were going to be out for ages yet,” Chris, however, is not cowed the slightest bit – is instead rising with a hiss like a murderously angry snake, “ _brat_ -“

He has to grab those bony hips. Because he _does_ love his son, even if being charitably disposed is a _tiny_ bit of a push at present moment, “Chris-!”

“Chess club was cancelled, Justine couldn’t come and I didn’t think that it’d be right to start without her,” Marcus only sneers over them, in a tone so unimpressed that it could probably wither several bushes and kill a few innocent cows, “Philip brought me home.”

“You could’ve called- Philip?”

“Philip!” …Beams the man himself, bouncing into the room and stopping _dead_ at the sight of him turning bright scarlet and Marcus wearing an incredibly long suffering face and Chris _sitting on his lap_ in a way that really can’t be mistaken for anything other than it is, “oh.”

“…Hello, Philip,” he can only say, in an incredibly weary tone as he tries to shove Chris off him (by the hips, which probably isn’t the _best_ plan in the world).

“Busy, are we?”

“Definitely,” Chris growls, without a single attempt to hide his mood, “now, bug-“

“Chris!”

“You’re all animals,” Marcus pronounces, with a haughty sniff more suited to a king than a ten year old boy who should probably _actually love his parents instead of treating them like idiots_ , and turns towards the kitchen yet again – probably to complain about the eggs or something equally ridiculous, “call me if you need anything… Or don’t, actually, I have _far_ better things to do.”

…And he swans off, with a little shake of his head that _shouldn’t_ draw as much shame as it does.

The only option, really, is to bury his head in Chris’ bony collarbone and let out a helpless, pleading sort of groan.

“…Could I join in one day?”

“Philip-“

“Only if we get to cut _bits_ of you off.”

“Chris-!”

…It’s hopeless, really.

\--

The next time, at least, they get _some_ contact in before he suddenly realizes that Marcus needs picking up _within the next half hour_ and accidentally sends Chris flailing to the floor at the thought.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes a few minutes later, leaning outside the school gates and watching as Chris rubs grumpily at his hip (the hip that he was holding desperately onto, under an hour ago), “I just need-“

“To take care of your prick of a son,” Chris finishes his rubbing with a final wince, glares up with remarkably dark eyes and still bruised mouth (the mouth that he was helplessly kissing over and over again, just over half an hour ago), “I _know_.”

“Chris!”

“What?”

“We’re outside a _school_ ,” he hisses, and tries to ignore the look of utter scorn that’s levelled his way (he looked less scornful exactly twenty nine minutes ago, sitting back on his chest and mumbling something rough about condoms), “could you at least _try_ to be appropriate for a few minutes?”

“…No.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“Not for a second?”

“Nope!”

…He sighs, loud and _hopeful_ that it’ll carry, tucks his fingers into his pockets and tries to ignore the way that Chris _still_ manages to look smug even with ruffled hair and kiss bruised lips and shirt barely scrambled back into as he dashed for the car keys.

“Besides,” Chris purrs, and he’s pretty sure that the damned git (he doesn’t mean that. He means bastard instead) _knows_ how hard he’s failing, “you _like_ it when I’m inappropriate.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Not even a bit.”

“A very big bit.”

…He glares at Chris, briefly, has to _firmly_ bite his lip to avoid bursting out laughing at the actual _leer_ lurking there, “can’t prove anything, not a problem!”

“Oh,” which backfires, just slightly, as Chris steps _closer_ \- smirking so firmly that he can actually feel it along the line of his jaw, “I think I can prove _something_.”

“…Not outside a school, Chris.”

“What not outside a school?”

“You know very well what not.”

“Do I?”

“Pretty sure you do.”

“Honestly,” Chris says, in a slightly disappointed way, and leans forwards _just_ when he can’t resist the urge to look for any longer, “you have a _filthy_ mind, Timothy…”

And, granted, that may be true.

But he can hardly _help_ it with Chris kissing him. Just the lightest pressure on his mouth, ever so brushing, but with the promise of so much _more_ that he can’t help but turn around fully – slowly wind his arms around Chris, the bony bastard, and hold on as those long hands creep to lace around the back of his neck.

And, oddly enough, it is brilliant.

And wonderful.

And _perfect_ -

“Honestly” …And then Marcus’ voice interrupts, low and scornful and carrying hints of a _scowl_ , “you two are animals. You should really just go live in a forest and leave me to Judith.”

…Ah.

He draws back, to find Chris already giving a slightly terrifying death glare, slowly turns his head to look down at the glowering Marcus with a blush already attempting to conquer his cheeks and establish civilisations there (a bit far, possibly, but he doesn’t really _care_ at present moment), “Marcus!”

“You keep saying that in a vaguely apologetic tone,” Marcus continues to look unimpressed, only marching towards the car like it’ll briefly _do_ as his noble and much deserved chariot, “and yet you don’t stop doing it: it makes one wonder how sincerely apologetic you actually _are_.”

“Not at all, you little-”

“Chris!”

…This may, just slightly, be becoming a bit of a huge problem.

\--

And from that point on it gets, quite frankly, _ridiculous_.

No matter what he does with Chris, no matter how innocent the peck or how profound the state of nakedness, Marcus will _always_ pop up before they can get to anything proper. Will narrow his eyes and scowl as they dart apart from a morning kiss, will call them utter idiots and sigh as they untangle their limbs in the back of the car, will suddenly develop an interest in over-the-top cleanliness the _moment_ that Chris makes a vague hint towards doing _things_ in the shower.

And he’s not a nymphomaniac (though Chris might be).

And he’s gone without sex for _years_ before now (though Chris certainly hasn’t).

But it’s starting to get _frustrating_ , as he’s left with only brief brushes of Chris’ smirking lips and Chris’ surprisingly soft flesh, and with that in mind _anybody_ can understand his steady and rather passionate attempts to grind his forehead through his desk.

“We could always kill the boy if you wanted,” the Examiner offers in passing, clutching a cup of ‘coffee’ (alcoholic beverage that would kill any sane person) in his hand.

“ _No_ , you cannot kill my son.”

“…Vaguely maim him?”

He looks up from the forehead grinding, manages a look so _utterly appalled_ that he’s pretty sure that even Paula would back away from it.

“You know,” but the Examiner is worse than Paula, oddly enough – and that is a sentence that he never thought he’d think, say or even drift in the vague direction of, “we could blind him.”

“… _No_.”

“Deafen him-?”

“ _No_ ,” he considers for a long second. Decides, quite sensibly, to resume sanding his forehead upon the desk “…You are a strange, twisted man. You know that?”

“…Is that a compliment?”

Caitlin sends him a sympathetic look in passing, he only sighs and starts grinding harder.

\--

…Though should’ve ground harder than that, really, as subsequent events soon proved.

 _Bang_ , goes Marcus’ hand against the wall – in the middle of the night _and_ when they were quite involved in a very pleasant, but actually _quiet_ , act that involved an awful lot of concentration.

“I’m going to kill him,” Chris spits, rising from between his legs with still wet lips and trying to angrily stumble his way out of the bed, “actually going to _murder_ the little prick-“

“Chris,” He sighs, erection already wilting, _narrowly_ managing to grab Chris’ bony wrist before he follows up on the threat (because he will, he always will – underestimating Chris is about as sensible as dressing up as a certain large land herbivore in front of a pack of lions) “…The courts wouldn’t approve.”

“So?”

“Chris!”

“I want to fuck you,” Chris gives up, flopping back into his arms with a huff and a sulky pout “…Or you to fuck me, either way.”

“I know…”

“And I can’t even suck you off because that little twat is throwing a wobbly!” Chris’ bottom lip goes out further, he seems almost _tearful_ for a moment (Except not really, because Chris only approves of tears when they’re made out of acid), “honestly, for a borderline nymphomaniac-“

“You are not a borderline nymphomaniac-“

“-This is _hardly_ fulfilling.”

…A long, slightly terrified (because he can’t muck this up too, he _can’t_ ) pause follows.

And then he drags Chris closer and _kisses_ him, somewhat soothed when those bony arms wrap around his neck and the sulky bastard responds with equal enthusiasm “…I do sort of adore you, you know that?”

“Soppy,” Chris sniffs, but with a hint of a smile somehow dancing around his lips, “but I suppose, if _you’re_ going to be utterly nauseating-“

 _Bang_!

“Prick!”

“Chris!”

…This has gone beyond ridiculous, and has charged right into the territory of _actually awful and horrible and_ why _does the universe keep doing this to him?_ (A long title for a territory, he’ll admit, but considering the expression on Chris’ face he feels like it’s _very_ justified.)

\--

And it only keeps getting worse.

After that incident, and _especially_ after Marcus smirked at them the next morning and he had to stop Chris from using the bread knife in a highly illegal way, Chris starts to refuse to do _anything_. Not just attempted blow jobs, not just straddling on the couch – kissing, cuddling, _hand-holding_.

…And he misses it.

Misses the familiar weight of Chris on his chest when he drifts off at night, misses the inappropriate ways that Chris will try to get a smile out of him, _misses_ the casual intimacy that he’s never had before and never really wants with anybody else. He just wants Chris back to the way he usually is, just wants an actual relationship, just wants… _Chris_.

And if that leads to him making grinding his head into the desk a habit? Well, you can hardly blame him…

“Tim,” unless you’re Caitlin, obviously, who drags him up by the hair and off into an almost secluded corridor in the next moment, “Tim, look at me. Why are you risking brain damage on such a regular basis?”

He blinks at her innocently for a moment. As innocently as he can with a suspiciously reddened nose.

“ _Tim_.”

“…My son refuses to let me sleep with my boyfriend, kiss my boyfriend or show affection to my boyfriend in any way,” he can only sigh, and rub his hand through his mysteriously loose hair as she tilts her head at him, “and I didn’t realize how pathetic having a boyfriend in my late thirties sounds until I said it.”

Caitlin only arches an eyebrow, looking as wonderfully unimpressed as ever, “do you love him?”

“Yes,” he says. Because the answer is obvious, and _should_ be obvious to anybody with eyes, ears, a brain or even a body considering how truly and utterly committed he is (which makes him sound mad, but that’s hardly a change).

“Then the terms don’t matter, do they?” She waits for him to nod, still sighs like he’s a rather stupid five year old and leans back against the wall with a thoughtful frown “…I’m guessing that your boyfriend is getting rather annoyed with this state of affairs?”

“Yes,” he mutters in reply, looking down at his feet in the helpless hope that _they’ll_ make anything better, “he refuses to do anything.”

“Even handjobs?”

“Caitlin!”

“I assume not,” she says sensibly, and waits a few seconds to make sure that he won’t explode in a fountain of pure embarrassment “…It’s not an ideal situation, is it?”

“Far from one,” he grumbles, not likely to explode but _still_ bright red.

“…Well, then, you should fix it!

“How?”

“ _Talk_ to them,” she sighs, and pats his cheek like that’ll miraculously make him emotionally intelligent, “get them into the same room, sit them down and explain that you love Chris, that you’d like to have a physical relationship with him, that Marcus should respect that and that you’ll all have to learn to tolerate each other in the end so you might as well try it before any actual murder attempts happen.”

He blinks at her for a long moment.

“…Well?”

“…How do you know my boyfriend’s name?”

She stares at him. For several long, slightly frozen moments “…You’re right, boyfriend does sound a bit pathetic when you’re your age. You really should sort that out. Propose to him or something!”

“ _What_ -?”

But, by the time he’s done helplessly spluttering and flailing in an incredibly appalled way, Caitlin is gone. And he’s left to walk back to his desk in a state of mild despair at how his existence is horrifically _filled_ with all the insanity that the universe has to offer.

(…That doesn’t make it a bad idea, though.)

\--

“Marcus.”

“Tim,” Marcus spares a look to Chris sitting sulkily on the couch, grudgingly raises his eyebrow “…Chris.”

“Brat.”

“ _Chris_!”

… _Well_.

This is already going about as well as expected, but he still has to press on. Extend his hand towards the armchair until Marcus takes the hint and scornfully lowers himself down.

“Marcus” …Right. He can do this, “you do know that I’ve been divorced from your mother for over two years now, right?”

“I am aware.”

“As dumb as he can be, Tim-“

He reaches out to touch Chris’ hand pleadingly, is pleasantly surprised when Chris only rolls his eyes and falls obediently silent “…But I do know that that’s not your main problem with my relationship with Chris, since you appear to have no problem with Philip, and he and your mother are-“

He pauses for a second, trying to find a way to put it without falling to their level.

“…Entirely inappropriate?”

“Rather demonstrative,” Marcus provides unwillingly over Chris, a slightly disgusted look upon his face, “Yes.”

“Excellent,” don’t hope, don’t hope – the moment he starts hoping horrible, awful things will happen (Possibly up to velociraptor standards, not a serious risk but one that does rather illustrate how truly awful it could get) “…So what is your problem with my relationship with Chris?”

A long pause.

“…He doesn’t like me very much.”

“He’s right there.”

“True,” he mutters, has to give that point for Chris is _hardly_ helping, “but though he doesn’t like you he’d never _actively_ hurt you-“

“I-“

“- _Or_ scupper your chances of a fantastic future.”

…Marcus, surprisingly, seems to consider this for a second. His hands playing in his lap, his eyes shifting between them like he’s trying desperately to think of another point, “he doesn’t have a very good job, and has no ambition to get a better one.”

“That is true.”

He touches Chris’ hand again, is _again_ terribly surprised when he falls silent but still gathers himself up and carries on, “Marcus, _I_ don’t have a very good job and you have told me before that I have the ambition of a incredibly lazy badger. We suit each other there.”

As far as anybody besides Chris knows.

“…Then you need somebody who will support you,” though, to be honest, it _would_ probably be easier if Marcus knew – as he springs to his feet again, and heads to the door with a scornful sort of strut that _really_ can’t mean good things for the future of his very important relationship, “somebody rich, somebody classy, somebody in it for the long term. And I think we all know that _Chris_ -“

“You little-!“

“ _Marcus_!”

…He also rises to his feet, Chris frowning at him all the way. Marcus halts by the door, reluctantly turns back with arms crossed.

“I _am_ in this for the long term,” he says simply, and tries not to frown at the odd way that Chris’ eyes widen besides him, “Chris makes me happy, and I hope that I make him happy. We have, to be a bit awkward, a wonderful relationship – but one that I would like to conduct without interferences every five seconds.”

Marcus only stares at him, also a little wide eyed.

“…He makes me laugh, sometimes I make him cackle at me. I know that I’d protect him if anything ever went wrong, I have some faith that he’d do the same for me if the situation was reversed. We have fun together, we _care_ about each other – and if I’m going to be perfectly honest, Marcus, I would be blissfully happy with never seeing another person ever again,” he draws in a deep breath, doesn’t dare look back at where Chris is suspiciously silent, “we just want a proper relationship where we’re not censored for the simplest romantic gestures. And that’s all I can ask of you.”

A long pause.

…A very long pause.

“You are _helplessly_ soppy,” Marcus says, turning away quickly (…To hide a smile? No, surely not) and marching towards the door, “you’ll melt each other before the ten year mark.”

“…Marcus-?”

But he’s already gone.

There’s a long pause, as he stares after his son and wonders why Chris is still so mysteriously silent behind him…

“Tim?”

“Yes?”

“If I don’t get to shag you soon,” Chris says, so sincerely that he practically wants to try taking him on the couch right now, “I may start killing my customers, just saying.”

“…Thank you, Chris.”

He can only hope.

\--

And, for once in his _life_ , his hopes actually end up being rewarded – the day after their rather dramatic talk Marcus leaves them alone long enough to actually have a proper snog, a few days after that he manages to conceal a wrinkle of his nose when they absently start holding hands, a few days after _that_ he actually delays Judith long enough for Chris to finally give him that blowjob that he’s been dreaming of.

And within a fortnight…

“Justine should be picking me up in a minute,” Marcus announces coldly, only rolling his eyes at their awkward spring apart as he enters the living room, “or Justine’s dad, either way. He still thinks that you’re an idiot, Tim. A sensible man all around.”

“…Thanks, Marcus.”

“Anyway, I should be out for at _least_ two hours,” but he can soon forgive the kid, as Chris looks over at him with a certain shine in his eyes and his throat suddenly goes _dry_ , “Possibly three, maybe even four if I can manage it. Do try and keep your disgusting practices to a minimum, I don’t want to explain to the neighbours why my dubious father refuses to act his age.”

“…Thanks,” he mutters again, sincerely.

“There’s no need for thanks,” Marcus pauses for a long second at the door, hides a smile so professionally that Chris almost starts applauding at his side “…I’ll see you later.”

“Yes.”

“Bye!”

…There’s a short, expectant pause. Until Marcus exits the room and sharply shuts the front door.

And then Chris is _on_ him, clambering into his lap and kissing him so hard that he can only reach up to brace the man’s back and attempt desperately to stick his tongue into that ever so hot mouth.

“ _Tim_ ,” When Chris draws back his eyes are glittering, hair all over the place as he _smirks_ , “I’ve wanted this for ages. Now get your clothes off before I change my mind.”

And there’s a look in his eyes, a look that he’s learned to recognize by now, that suggests that the threat isn’t _entirely_ serious…

But that still doesn’t mean that he should go _slow_. The moment that Chris shifts back, starts to draw his own shirt over his head, he’s unbuttoning his shirt and undoing his belt and pulling down his fly and kicking off his clothes and _stripping_ \- stripping until he’s lying back naked on the couch and Chris is standing just as naked before him.

He stares for one long, appreciative moment – even if he’s seen all of it before, “you are _gorgeous_.”

And it’s soppy-

And Chris only _grins_ , the most sincere grin that he’s ever seen, and launches all those bones at his lap – the sensation of bare skin ( _His_ bare skin) against bare skin ( _Chris’_ bare skin, good lord) enough to make him shudder and gasp and slump back against the cushions with Chris on top.

It does, he sort of has to admit, take a good few seconds for him to get his breath back after all that, “We need-“

Chris, miraculously, is already holding up a tube of lube (heh, it rhymes) – sitting back on his chest and grinning with all the smugness of a cat in a pet shop full of canaries.

…He does rather deserve flipping for that ( _and_ maybe the fact that he looks oddly sexy on his back), “and also-?”

Chris is already holding up a condom with his other hand, _still_ looking ever so smug even while naked and heaving and with absurdly long legs creeping up over his hips.

“…Right.”

And when he slides in, slowly and carefully and with Chris spitting swear words beneath him, it really _is_ the best experience in the whole wide world.

…Soppy, really.

But justified.


End file.
